


(breathe, we are) wilder people

by amb-roses (buckshot_lariat)



Series: they know they are immortal (because nothing yet has killed them) [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Angst, Character Study, Con Artists, Con Artists but theyre so-so at it, Drinking to Cope, Eating Lucky Charms as a Bonding Activity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Happy Ending, Heist AU, Injury, Introspection, Mild Blood, POV Second Person, Partners in Crime, Pre-Heist, Prequel, Sharing a Bed, Symbolism, a whole 4/3s of a mess if you will, ask to tag, character and introspection but i dont know what either of those mean, its talked about but not described, shinsuke is a mess and asuka is less of a mess, the relationship between asuka and shin can be taken platonic or romantic so take it as you will, theyre all assholes but the roman is less of one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:02:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckshot_lariat/pseuds/amb-roses
Summary: You offer to drive her wherever she wants to go. You figure it’s the least you could do, having dropped a building on top of her little more than a week and a half earlier. She looks at you like you're crazy when you offer and you leave it at that.She makes an offer of her own, a small marshmallow moon, and hooks your pinkies together when you take it with a small smile.





	(breathe, we are) wilder people

**Author's Note:**

> (this au is in no way mine, is actually by devittprinces on tumblr, who's more or less deactivated and has left wrestling all together)
> 
> local dumbass author cant tag or write descriptions
> 
> i started this about three or four months ago? and then lost the motivation and direction of what i wanted as a prequel for future works in this au and the whole thing fell apart about three hundred words in so it kinda sat and collected dust  
> and then recently! and by recently i mean like a week ago, i remember i had this and coincidentally watched a few heist/con films and got inspired and then hammered this out in a few days and edited it in about one so! here u go, i never want to touch this again but probably will
> 
> title is from Sæla by Black Foxxes bc ive been listening to that song a lot recently

(Looking back, you don’t think it’s possible to avoid a life like this. You’re too wild, too feral. Too untamable. You think that’s why you and her get along so well, you’re both too big for this world.)

(You’re too much. It burns.)

(You set out young, too young, for a wilder world than this one.)

(You find it.)

 

When you’re young, just getting into the business, you watch the aftermath of your first big hit with a sour sensation in the back of your throat. This part of it isn’t to your taste at all.

The warehouse is on fire and you can feel the echoes of past explosions rattle in your bones, a call and response you give a single shiver to relieve. You're simply surveying as you walk a slow, safe distance past glowing-hot metal and crumbling walls, smoke spiraling in thick columns. Haunting, the whole thing is. But not entirely your fault. 

You don’t like the killing. It’s the only thing you don’t like in training. The violence is fine, violence doesn’t bother you, but the senseless deaths? The chaos left behind of good, pained work gone to waste? Of innocent casualties? It’s an inconvenience at best and a melody in your heartstrings at worst. Nothing you can’t work through, but work you don’t want to have to do in the first place. 

It's a fallen structure of metal, collapsed on its side, that you see her for the first time.

She's young, red dyed-bleached hair short and messy, slightly singed. Head to toe in small burns and soot, her legs pinned down by a particularly heavy looking pole. She's practically spitting in fury, thrashing and struggling as the metal visibly heats and the fires begins to lick in her direction. 

You look at her and sees a hundred things at once. They tell you that you're dramatic, that it's not possible to glance and see an unmolded man's potential, but you see her and you see the whole world cupped in both of your hands. 

She spots you and at once she doubles in size, threat laced in every line and crease of her ashy, paled face. There is fear in her eyes and she struggles to keep an eye on you when the heat intensifies, crashing over both of you in thick waves.

You inhale.

You're pushing her burned fingers away, lifting the weighted metal slowly enough for her to slip out and take your sleeve to pull you along as she does. She throws her arm over your shoulder and forces you to bend down at an awkward angle instead when you offer to carry her. She snaps her teeth, gritting them against every stumble and shift against your side, but rejects your concern and offers to help even as she lets herself into your beat up rental.

You exhale.

She’s stubborn, unrelenting, made of the same cut of wild that you are. You try not to think about that too much and get her medical care.

She tells you her name is Kana after she's firmly on the road to recovery a few days later. You ask her where she'd like to be dropped off and she tilts her head and tells you it's wherever you're going, as though it's something obvious you’ve missed. 

You figure it’s the least you could do, having dropped a building on her. She doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, it’s a part of the business, but you can’t help the guilt that builds in your throat.

Ouch.

Kana becomes your shadow and you don't connect Kana, the injured girl plucking the colorful marshmallows out of your Lucky Charms with  _ Kana,  _ the fictional kitsune, the trickster, the protective presence behind the highest bidder. The assassin, the muse, the bodyguard, the thief, the jack of all trades.

When you do, you tell her she doesn't have to waste her time on a low life like you. She must have more important contracts, yes?

Kana looks at you like you're crazy and you leave it at that. She offers you a small marshmallow moon and hooks your pinkies together when you take it with a small smile.

 

The forecast tells of a threatening storm brewing out at sea.

 

(Kana cradles her legs to her chest sometimes, more often when she has nightmares. Traces the scars still left from when you rescued her from the warehouse. The marks there are long-lasting and tell more of a story you doesn’t ask for. You tell her you’re sorry for dropping a building on her and she laughs, a touch of melancholy flashing across her face. It’s not the warehouse that caused her to get so perfectly trapped in that explosion, and you both know it.)

(You don’t ask and she doesn’t answer.)

(Sometimes when the night terrors are more violent, she begs for mercy.)

(You hand her the Lucky Charms and open your blanket to her, but don’t turn on the lamp. You watch amber-gold light flood in from the street, the rush of the occasional car past by the motel, the neon of the flickering sign outside to the sound of quiet crunching and shuffling in a plastic bag.)

(There’s milk waiting for you in the morning, sitting next to the marshmallowless bag of cereal and a cup of hot coffee, exactly how you like it.)

(Neither of you say anything.)

 

Everything blurs into one long smear of color and you think you might remember what gravity is for a moment, and do in time to disrupt the gravel in the front yard at as perfect of a speed to probably break bones but not kill. You can feel every scratch, every muscle and pull of skin protest, bones creaking as you bounce once, twice, and roll to a stop face down in the grass. It's messy and probably as comical as it is painful, and your ten thousand dollar suit is burnt and ashy, hot and plastered to your skin more than it already was by sweat, and everything  _ hurts. _

Your nose is full of dirt and slightly askew. You’re not sure of that’s from the face down part or the part where you took a candlestick to the face. First priority is regaining your senses back, but all you can feel is the sensation of spinning, like your brain is spinning over and over in a circle in your skull, your body wanting to move with your distorted sense of gravity but unable to. You can’t move your limbs, but your fingertips light up with the detached feeling of annoyed nerve endings, so that’s probably what you’re getting back first.

At least the grass is still dewy and cool with the morning fog, both soothing the more toasted parts of you and irritating your wounds.

There's the feeling of soft shoes disturbing grass around you, earth shifting, and then there's a tiny body worming under your own, a speaking voice vibrating into your neck before you're heaved to your feet. It must be Kana, because when you actually stand up tall, the top of your chin fits comfortably limp, perfectly atop her head. An inch away from a perfect foot of height difference. That, and Kana's first reaction being to try and piggy-back you off the property. 

At least feeling is coming back to your legs as they half drag behind you, Kana heaving with breath underneath as you navigate into… woods? You struggle to squint enough to see without agitating your burning retinas further. There were woods surrounding the property, right? Probably. Gods, thinking hurts.

You can't hear, a thick fog of white noise and the sound of your own heartbeat still roaring in your ears, so you clear your throat and go for a whisper, your body complaining anyway.

_ “The money?” _

Her hand finds yours and you squint against the light again as she slows her pace to place it on a bag slung over her front. Hard, familiar lumps meet your probing hand and you smile into the crown of her hair.

_ “Thank God this suit wasn't for nothing. Too uncomfortable, not durable through explosives. I rate it six of out ten for style.” _

For a moment she rattles and shakes under you and you're about to slump off her to check if she's injured, legs be damned, but when you crack your eyes open again, ears slowly fading into the croak of the woods around you, you realizes she's laughing.

You smile into her hair again and let yourself laugh along for the first time in recent memory.

A storm builds on the horizon.

 

(She traces her scars in the mirror, frowns and closes her eyes. You hesitantly trace over them with her silent consent, and she smiles against the rough pads of your fingertips. She brushes carefully over the marks adorning your own skin and you give her a weary grin she returns–

(You tell her she is beautiful. She shakes her head at you. You tell her with as much honesty as you can squeeze into your voice, into your expression, until you tell her she is beautiful and she smiles shyly back at you.)

(You tell her she is beautiful a few months later, and her grin is crooked and confident. It’s a predators grin, one that speaks better than any words could.)

–You spend the rest of the night getting sick on chocolate milk and pastries, telling funny stories of the better, brighter times that come with your business, as few and far inbetween as they come.)

(You’ve never laughed much, until you’ve met her. Her natural, casual smile is so normal, sometimes you can think and pretend you both don’t kill and con people, destroy lives, for a living.)

 

(She fixes the beds when you leave. It must be a control thing. Probably has it itched with the black and white of your business, but you’ve both been on a small vacation. It’s something you’ve noticed over time. The asymmetry of scars and the chaos of a meeting, hit, con falling apart. The only two things you know outright unsettle her.)

 

There's blood overflowing between your fingers, sticky and liquid, and she lets out the smallest, most pained gasp you've ever heard in your life. You press harder and the blood slows, even as her nails dig sharply into your wrist like tiny claws. The people you work with seem to think you’re genuine in your wackiness. Sure, you’re a little weird, joke around a bit. This business they’re in sucks the life out of you, it makes sense to try and breathe some back into it if you can. Everyone loves a good joke, a good laugh, right?

Sometimes, you aren’t laughing. 

“They weren't aiming for me,” you tell her. Her eyes harden, her breath sharpening as the EMTs finally arrive. You press harder as her body makes another attempt at bleeding out. She shrieks now, something contained and pained. Your mounting fury rumbles in your chest and you keep it quickly in line. 

You're not a teenager or a rookie, you're one of the best con artists on the planet and you know how to act like it, but this is testing you. Someone had deliberately tried to take her out. People had hits on you, it was no big deal. You start shit all the time and you know what you’re getting into when you do. You know which toes to step on and which to watch out for, but Kana was a ghost, one of the most trusted and contracted hit women and bodyguards in Japan, nevermind the world. It was an unspoken thing that you didn’t go after her or she would put you down, but now, with you involved?

“Asuka,” she says when they ask. “My name is Asuka.”

You give your own name against her sharp glare and place yourself at the head of the gurney when they wheel her in. She snaps her teeth at the medic in warning, but you grab the man's wrist and reign him back in despite the fear on his face and plant him next to her. She's too busy with you to fight him when he gets quickly to work, anyway.

“Why would you–  _ fuck–  _ your own name?”

You smile, tense and sharp. “Because I want them to tell those people when they ask. I want them to know me, to match a face with a name when I find them. Or when they find me, whichever comes first.”

“Sir,” she says, then with a harder tone.  _ “Sir.  _ Not for me.”

“Always for you,” you snap back. “For you and for me. This,” you gesture with a flick of the fingers to her wound, “is the beginning. We're going to rule the world, Asuka. This is the beginning of our empire. Our kingdom.”

She relaxes a little bit at that, at whatever she sees in your eyes, going limp as you rest your hands protectively over her shoulders and glare at the other man. The medic stares, jumping to life when you snap your fingers impatiently.

“Rule the world,” she smiles, soft and sweet with a lining of pain laced throughout. “Empress _ — ah— _ sounds nice.”

You brush your lips over her forehead, smile reassuringly back.

You stand guard as a soldier, and eventually a King.

A storm lurks along the beachfront.

 

(Money has always been something significant to you. Most problems can be solved with money. Most things go to shit without it. You can save a man’s life with money. You can take one just the same. Most people can be swayed with it. Everyone has a price, usually money. The highest bidder is the man with all the cards, and there’s something to be said about having a back-up plan.

You want to buy her the world, sometimes. Maybe it could make up for how shitty of a person you are, how she feels obligated to stick with you. Make her smile that natural and real all the time. You want to be better. You want to be stronger, want to have strong morals. Want to be better for yourself, for her. You know you can, but money can’t do it for you. It’s too much, sometimes. You wish money could–)

(You don’t like to drink. In this line of work, it’s neither smart nor healthy. It fucks with your judgement and impairs your senses. It’s a weakness all around. The only time you drink is a few sips here and there after testing to see if it’s laced with anything, usually with someone you’re conning or someone connected to the con to keep your cover. You don’t like to drink, but sometimes when certain dates roll around, the sweet lure of the bottle is the only thing you can find that’ll tame the wild thing that screams in your chest, claws up your throat, torments your mind.)

(You don’t like drinking you don’t like drinking you don’t like drinking you don’t like drinking you don’t like drinking you don’t like drinking y–)

(She takes the mostly empty bottle from your hands, thumb wiping away at your cheek. You lean after the touch when she moves away with the alcohol. She’s back a moment later, frowning sorrowfully up at you from where she crouches to the floor at your feet. You tell her you’re sorry, so sorry. She shakes her head and helps you up, into your bed for the night. You apologize again and she shushes you, climbing in on your other side. You whisper that you’re sorry, and she scoots up the bed and holds you tightly.)

(She snores quietly in your hair, and you tell her you’re sorry.)

(She doesn’t fix the beds when you leave, and you smile weakly at her.) 

(She smiles back.)

 

A gun is leveled at your forehead and you smile in response. Something in you squirms at the cold metal, whatever is still squishy enough to feel that kind of fear, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by your trust in Asuka’s control of the situation.

“I thought we were getting somewhere?”

“The only place you're going, Nakamura, is six feet in the ground. Nothing personal, just business.” The grunt smiles back at you, pointed and angry. Too bad, you had actually been a little interested in the deal. Annoying.

You tilt your head and the man falls dead with a roll of thunder on the horizon. The storm must be finally rolling in.

The rest of them scatter immediately, but all you had eyes for was the leading grunt. It was a poor crew, no trust. No trust and too much confidence. A shame.

You bend down when the chaos settles and takes the man's flashdrive.

 

(You ball your fists tightly, not losing your grip even when she pries your fingers open and places her own hand under your nails. She doesn’t mind your tight grips. She understands without words what his few friends can’t get with what years of weightless language could never grasp.)

 

The casino is big and flashy, but you're hesitant to enter without your second, your Asuka, at your shoulder. It had been too long since you'd worked a singles job, even with your guard as backup a few buildings down.

A few glances had scoped most of the place out, one of your more business-inclined talents, and your uniform is clean pressed and straightened out. It's an easy job, in and out. One you could do in your sleep. 

“You ready?” Asuka asks, comm humming faintly in your ear as you leave it open. She must be done checking and double checking each piece of her gear, each part of your plan. It’s something you’re willing to indulge in. It settles your nerves, if anything. If she’s reassured and calmed, then you should be, too.

“When am I not?”

She laughs and the smile that comes to your face is natural. You straighten your tie one last time, the one she thought fit you the best, and maneuver towards the servers entrance.

As soon as you enter, the heavy clouds overhead growl threatening, darkening the streets.

 

(One day, you look in the mirror. It’s so strange, to see this other man stare back at you. With how many people you fake, are you still that little boy from Japan? Are you still Shinsuke? You’d like to think so, past the long curls of hair and the short shaved sides, the lines around your eyes, the stubble you haven’t quite got around to trimming away at yet.)

(A younger you stares back when you stare for long enough. His hair is still short and full, fluffy and soft. He looks like a child, pretty much is one. He’s a newborn deer, a growth spurt leaving him on legs too long, too tall, limbs altogether too lanky for decent coordination. He smiles faintly, a twitch of the lips, but the smile is in the eyes.)

(You smile back, ghosting your hand across the surface. You like to pretend the soft brush against your hand may or may not be him. It was too warm to be the mirror.)

(You finally leave Japan for good, no longer feeling bound to your home, no longer feeling that tug every time you left temporarily. Asuka seems excited, if nervous. It’s a big world out there. You take her hand and feel ready to face anything the world may throw at you.)

 

It’s pouring hard outside of the car, each impact hard, fast, loud against the windshield and creaky metal. The sting of a failed job still smarts, more than the two wounds pulsing furiously at you. Your subdued disappointment, irritation, and most importantly anger, feels less like a wildfire and more like a hurricane similar to the storm outside. Someone had hunted you like an animal, tricked and trapped you, known your weaknesses and caught you in a beartrap. You shouldn’t,  _ wouldn’t _ be alive if not for Asuka saving you at the cost of her own body.

It feels like that’s all she does, now. Saves your ass when things get a little hot. Even now, you’re still not used to having to tough it out alone. You know she doesn’t mind, but guilt mingles with the strong tether of companionship that comes with her humming along to a pop song on the staticky radio. 

Hunter Hearst Helmsley.

Triple H.

Hunter… Hearst… 

“Stop thinking so hard, I’m choking on the smoke.”

The familiar words refocus you back in reality. Even in other countries, Asuka never made a particularly strong effort to speak in other languages, especially when both of you were the only ones who could understand your native tongue.

The unsaid question lingers with her glance up from her phone, dropping her soda into the cupholder between you.

“Should you even be drinking that?” you ask, pushing your rampant mental and emotional states away to properly focus. First, safe house, second, secure, third, long distance consults to cover up their trail and make some extra cash on the side to last through their impromptu get away until you could access your bank account. Fourth… fourth, Hunter.

Asuka sarcastically studies the information on the side of the can, tapping a finger to her chin. “Hmm… maybe I'll stop if you tell me what you're thinking about.”

You snort but sigh shortly after. “Just planning for the future.”

_ “Worrying,  _ you mean. For no reason now other than to stress yourself out. That's my job.”

You purse your lips and tighten your grip on the steering wheel for a fraction of a second and nearly run a red light in the process. The hard stop and rattle of the car makes you both groan and clutch your wounds, even as it’s more curling into yourself when you throw out an unnecessary hand between her and the dashboard.

“You okay?”

She smiles at you weakly as she tests the gauze on her shoulder with a muffled groan. “The mom seatbelt?”

“Just being careful. You could learn a thing or two from me.”

“Oh?” She laughs now, careful of her stitches. “Is that right, Mr. Nobody-Has-Ever-Caught-Me? Mr. I-Need-My-Ass-Saved-Every-Five-Minutes?”

You give her a sideways glance, lips twitching. “Of course. How else would we have lasted so long if not for my talents and tendency to plan and get my ass out of trouble?”

“All I'm here for is to keep your ego in check, yeah?” Her smile is crooked and bright, even from the corner of your eye as you pulls onto a side street.

“That and for eating all those damn marshmallows in my cereals.”

There's a mock offended gasp. “You  _ demon,  _ the marshmallows are the best part!”

“Those marshmallows are diseases!”

“You take that back–”

 

(You ball your fists tightly, not losing your grip even when she pries your fingers open and places her own hand under your nails. She doesn’t mind your tight grips. She understands without words what his few friends can’t get with years of weightless words could never grasp.)

(You take that fury in your chest and begin to mold it into something useful.)

(You step into the spotlight of the American Circuit, Asuka little more than a subtle ghost, just a step to your left and two behind.)

 

“Thank you for meeting me.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” You smile, wide and toothy in that way you know sets others on edge. The other two at the leader's sides tense at your open amusement. Easy cowed, smart enough to be wary and careful, but green enough in the business that they don’t have the experience to know what to do with it.

Reigns is polite enough, unlike his seconds who stare at you openly.  _ Really _ green, maybe, or just don’t care. Maybe it’s the neon red flip-flops with a high end suit. It was a beachside warehouse. Who didn’t wear flip-flops to the beach? You release a breath and nod for Asuka to step closer.

The one with the streak in his hair (– _ Seth Rollins,  _ Asuka tells him.  _ The Architect, master heist planner, currently works in Helmsley’s casino as a mole. Sneaky little rat, but means well. There’s a weird gap in the history of these three and I’d bet money that Rollins is the center of it. Naive, full of bravery and heart– _ ) reaches slowly for his hip and you can feel Asuka shift behind you in visible warning. She could take them all out in a single breath without breaking a sweat or a second thought. They either don't know this by the way they glance from you to her and back again, or they do and they're incredibly brave. 

Or just plain stupid. Or even a mix of both.

Reigns holds a palm out towards Rollins, blocking. “Seth. Cool it.” 

Rollins makes a face, but goes slack. The messy one ( _ –Dean Ambrose, fresh out of prison time after what’s looking like a backstab. Huge chip on your shoulder, messy reputation, wild card. Trust issues, but skilled in diversion making and disguise–) _ is still stiff, jittery and jumpy, tightly coiled muscle locked in place. His eyes don’t leave you the same way Rollins’ are on the lookout, constantly darting about shiftily.

You have a feeling Ambrose is keeping Rollins in his peripheral, keeping track of you with his eyes and the other two allies with every other sense. Every twitch of Rollins’ hand giving Ambrose’s quick dart of the eyes away, every miniscule tilt of his head towards the other man. Interesting.

Reigns turns back to you properly, sparing Asuka a wary glance but reluctantly focusing. “I have a proposition for you. You and your second.”

“Listening.”

“We– all three of us and a dozen or so others– are pulling a job together. Word on the street is you and your second got a bone to pick with Triple H.”

“Just about everyone in town does, no?”

“Yeah, but none of them are internationally renown con artists and professional heisters.”

“Ah, so you did your homework. Good to know. As promising and delightful as it sounds, why should  _ we  _ help  _ you?  _ And why should we  _ trust _ you?”

“Revenge, for one,” Ambrose speaks up. “That’s always a good motivator. And Mr. Tall-Dark-Bleached over there can give you access to our network if you agree to become allies with us. Supplies, cars, prime territory for you to work, freedoms, leeway with the police, etcetera. All the good stuff.”

“And what, majority of the cut?” You cut through the end of his offer. “A leash? Do not think you will walk into my territory and domesticate me, Mister Ambrose, Rollins, Reigns.”

“It’s not a binding contract,” Reigns steps forward, a warning look at both of his seconds as he does. “A small portion does go to us, but towards a pool of resources for everyone involved, every faction with a representative. Nothing big, and not even a dent in your pocket afterwards. The pros outweigh the cons. For the people, by the people.” 

The large man jerks his head at Rollins who extends a card, nearly dropping it when Asuka snatches it quickly from between his fingers and returns to her place behind you. It’s got a list of contact information with their names written on the back underneath blocky scrawl.  _ the SHIELD. _

“Think about it.”

You nod. “You’ll have my answer by Friday.” Reigns gives a small, hesitant bow to your returning amusement, before clicking his tongue and turning his back smoothly towards you and leaving with his seconds neatly at his sides. A show of faith.

Now it was just a question of whether those street mutts could actually pull something of that magnitude off, whether they could be trusted to guide and control as much power as they were asking of you and their  _ dozen or so  _ allies. Could they be trusted with your money? With your life? With all of your work and efforts? Actually take on Hunter?

You exit the warehouse with Asuka, who steps up next to you to watch them approach their tiny, beat up car. Rollins shoves Ambrose who punches him hard in the arm, Reigns cuts in and ruffles both of their heads, saying something that makes all of them laugh. Their smiles are nearly as feral as yours are.

“What do you think?” You ask the open air, sunset burning out to a hot crimson as the car rumbles to a start and pulls away. You both turn away and start making your way to the beach down the boardwalk that passes by.

“They’re young, a couple of idiots but… they have heart. They’re good. We gonna join them?”

Sounds too good to be true. Nobody is that genuine and selfless in this business. 

“I don’t trust them,” you say eventually.

“You don’t trust anybody,” she points out.

“I trust you.”

“Because you deal with my stubbornness and I deal with your... you. I bring you back down to reality, keep you on your toes, and you force me to bend and relax, make me flexible and less of a control freak.”

You turn to stare at her as wood gives away to sand. She’s impassive, eyes locked onto the ocean as you both approach it.

“When did you get so smart?”

She turns and smiles at you now, both heavy and light. “Dunno. Some time after getting dropped under a warehouse by this twiggy lookin’ kid. You might know him–"

You roll your eyes, moment gone. That’s better. You give her a small shove and kick off your flip-flops to dig your toes into the sand. Her laughs putter out and she takes your hand in her own.

“I guess… I  _ suppose _ we could give them a shot.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Let’s go, then.”

You turn away from the dying light and follow her lead. Two red flip-flops are washed away with the tide.


End file.
